


Segador: It is Not Him

by clickclickBANG



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Ficlet, Fluff, Humor, I thought of this idea three hours ago, LET ME SHOW YOU HOW TO WRITE A STORY, Other, Swearing, TWO CAN PLAY AT THIS GAME CHU, and then I fucking sat down and wrote it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 18:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9619595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clickclickBANG/pseuds/clickclickBANG
Summary: A story about how the earliest picture of the original Overwatch Commander came out.And how it is not him.Not in the way he knew himself.And not in the way he would become.---AKA, fuck vague half-answers on twitter.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you that want to see the sort of "team look" I was thinking of:
> 
> http://art-roly.tumblr.com/post/154605971920/lil-overwatch-concept-the-omnic-crisis-strike

**Segador: It is Not Him**

September 7, 2052: Overwatch’s New York Headquarters, United States - one year after the end of the Omnic Crisis

 

Gabriel’s pretty certain he’s never been so uncomfortable in his goddamn _life_.

The headgear pinches at his scalp, squeezing his cheekbones with unsettling pressure; he finds himself already missing his beanie, soft and warm and yielding.  The blue chestpiece doesn’t fit right - it’s too loose around his shoulders and too snug around his ribs; he finds himself already missing his black one, handcrafted by Torbjörn to fit perfectly.  The turtleneck - seriously, a fucking _turtleneck_?? It’s not even Kevlar! - scratches and is too warm for September; he finds himself missing his grey hoodie with gentle, flexible cotton.

But above all else -

Gabriel looks at the weird glowing rifle in his hands - sleek and black with orange lights, one of Ana’s “side arms,” because only a sniper would think of a standard assault rifle as a “side arm” - and hefts it with unnerving discomfort.

Above all else, he misses his shotguns.

With pounding frustration and an increasing headache (or was it increasing frustration and a pounding headache?), Gabriel steps out from behind the little partition where they had given him room to get changed.  He squares up before the small group of people in the room - his four closest companions, Ana’s seven-year-old daughter Fareeha (who’s looking rather bored as she smashes some buttons on her gamepad), and a bunch of the new recruits who are milling about awkwardly.

“I look ridiculous,” he growls.

The four heroes - Jack, Ana, Reinhardt, and Torbjörn - are lounging around the main room of the base, all of them also wearing these fucking weird ultra-blue “Overwatch” armor sets.  Reinhardt looks _especially_ uncomfortable and _especially_ blue - Torbjörn had barely managed to whip out the cobalt armor for him last-minute when Adawe had told them about the “Overwatch global reveal” photoshop to them last week.  The tiny engineer, meanwhile, looks completely out of place without his usual red armor, and he tugs at his beard nervously as he assesses the new recruits.  Jack and Ana seem to pull the look off well, as its basically the get up they’re already used to: Ana’s reading something on her datapad, adjusting the beret perched on her silky black hair.  Jack is leaning slack against the arm of a cheap couch, looking completely at ease with himself, tapping away at his datapad with a faint smirk as Fareeha next to him whines, “Jack, that’s not _fair_ -”

“This is why I told you not to battle the Overwatch Pokemon Champion, Fareeha,” Jack grins to her before he and the others turn their attention to their commander -

There is stiff, awkward, uncomfortable, _deadass_ silence in the room, broken only by the faint electronic chirping of some pocket monster passing the fuck out on Fareeha’s gamepad.

Torbjörn snorts as Fareeha’s tiny shoulders begin shaking.  Ana flashes a terrible, dry smile before covering her mouth and looking away.  Reinhardt squints at him with his good eye and Jack gives him the most awkward, _fucking fake_ smile Gabriel has ever seen on him, muttering with some effort, “You - you look good, Gabe.”

“I look fucking _ridiculous_ -” Gabriel starts with a scowl before Ana shouts, “LANGUAGE, GABRIEL.”  Her daughter doesn’t even seem to notice, however - Fareeha is giggling and chortling to herself as she shakes Jack’s arm with bubbling excitement and the blonde second-in-command is also starting to shiver with stifled laughter.

“What happened to yer _beard_?” Torbjörn asks with slight horror - because the beard enthusiast of Overwatch _would_ be the first to notice that it was different.  Gabriel frowns, rubbing a gloved hand over his chin, muttering, “Well...Gabrielle said to look presentable so I tried to trim it down but I fucked it up -”

“GABRIEL REYES, I SWEAR TO GOD -” Ana yells, rising from the couch and whipping around to face him in one smooth motion.  Gabriel grits his teeth, grumbling, “ _SORRY_ , I _screwed_ it up so it got this fuc- this _fricking_ bald patch so then I had to make it _even_ and now it looks like _shit_ \- turds and then I had to trim down all the rest of it and I look _ridiculous_ -”

“You look fine, Gabriel.”

Gabriel glares viciously at the newcomer entering in from the hall by where the new recruits are milling about.  She’s a short, dark-skinned, dark-haired woman with bright eyes and wide lips that are quick to quirk into a smile, her short curls bouncing with every casually confident step of her heels.  Her fondness for bright textiles is not daunted even now in the dying days of summer in New York: she apparently felt _whimsical_ as all fuck today because she’s wearing a bright blue dress - the same blue as their uniforms - with interwoven orange and silver-grey strands.  Her eyes light up as she assesses the Overwatch commander, looking him up and down with smug approval.  Gabriel snaps, “I look _overdone_ , Gabrielle.”

The Security Council’s Under-Secretary-General gives him a vague wave of her hand, saying in her Nigerian-tipped accent, “You look _professional_ , Gabriel.  You finally look like a leader.”

“So what, I was just chopped liver before?” Gabriel snaps, as the pressure in his head grows and he shifts the gun in his hand nervously.  It’s not live, obviously, and Gabriel’s trigger discipline is too good even with an empty rifle in his hands, but the thing still makes him uncomfortable, it still doesn’t feel _right_ , he feels -

He doesn’t feel like himself.

Jack gives him a soft, playful, happy smile and Gabriel softens a little.

At least someone is finding the humor in it.

“A beanie and sweatshirt are not appropriate for the Commander of Overwatch when he makes his public debut,” Adawe reminds him, before giving him a matronly fingerwave, “You have been putting this off for nearly six months, Reyes, and the United Nations cannot delay this any longer.  Now, come with me - the photographers are waiting.  The rest of you wait until the set up people call you.”  Adawe turns as abruptly as she came in, and Gabriel gives one last glance at Jack, who nods at him affectionately.

Gabriel sighs -

He’s fucking _weak_ to that look -

And then he sets off after his boss, striding past the four heroes and the little girl still giggling and the bewildered new recruits.

For a woman just under five feet tall and wearing three inch heels, Adawe is fucking _fast_.

Gabriel practically jogs up to her in the hallway to the main entrance, muttering, “Gabrielle…  Gabrielle… _Adawe, fucking stop_.”

That gets her attention, and she snaps around towards him with a fierce stare, squaring herself up to him rather impressively with her short stature as she whispers dangerously, “Do _not_ take that tone of voice with me, Gabriel -”

“I can’t _do this_.”

Adawe pauses because -

There’s a cracking in his voice.

Gabriel knows he has problems conveying his emotions - Jack always jokes that Gabriel’s face could make a bed of nails look soft.  Gabriel knows he has problems expressing himself - he can never find the right words to say.  Gabriel knows he has problems opening up - his heart struggles behind the layers of steel and bravado and taunting sarcasm, barriers only a select few have managed to get past.

Gabriel knows he has problems taking pictures.

Gabriel locks onto her dark eyes and -

He wouldn’t call it begging, per se -

But he’s definitely _pleading_ with her:

“Please… Please, Gabrielle - we need to _talk_ about this,” he says softly and Adawe’s dark mood lightens a bit as she says to him gently, “...It is just a few pictures, Gabriel.”

“...It’s not the pictures, Gabrielle.”

Adawe’s eyes - normally so bright and lively, now turned solemn and serious - search his for an answer and Gabriel whispers, dangerously close to feeling vulnerable -

He feels uncomfortable.

He feels unlike himself.

“This isn’t _me_ , Gabrielle,” Gabriel says, his voice breaking under the pressure of a too-tight headset and the pressure of a too-tight chestpiece and the weight of carrying an empty rifle that isn’t _his_ , “The meetings, the Security Council, planning city reconstructions, balancing budgets - I’m a general, not a politician.”

“There are still many parts of the world under great violence, Gabriel,” she reminds him, with a gentle pressure but a pressure nonetheless, “The world still needs you as Commander.”

“Out there, on the battlefield, sure, yeah, fuck, I’ll fight, I’ll always fight, but this?” Gabriel says, gesturing to himself, to the ridiculous blue pieces of armor and the empty rifle, “This is playing _fucking dress-up_ -”

“Funny,” Adawe smirks at him, “I thought you would have liked that, considering your fondness for that American costume holiday.”

“This isn’t fucking Halloween, Adawe,” he snaps, perhaps a touch more...violently than he should have, “This is not what I wore when I was ripping heads off Bastions or tripping up Spiders or even destroying Titans - and it _won’t_ be what I wear when I put down terrorists or gangs or mercenaries.”

“It’s just a photoshoot, Reyes -”

“We _need_ to talk about putting Jack or Ana in charge of Overwatch.”

Adawe stops, her mouth sealing into a tight line and Gabriel scowls at her, muttering in a low, dark, bittersweet growl, his words curling out of his lungs like black smoke, “I’ll fight whatever new battles this damn organization faces, I’ll do whatever needs to be done - whether that’s mercing a few bad guys or cleaning up the leftover Bastions or fucking balancing budgets - but _you cannot keep putting this off on me_. We both know that this is a fucking sham, my math skills aren’t fucking great, I can't persuade anyone anything for shit, and you need someone who will fight your _political_ battles, who will balance your budgets, who will find great recruits, and who will actually take good photos when you pressure them into it -

“And we both know that _is not me_.”

Adawe gives him a long, intense stare before replying quietly, gently, “...The Council will be hard to convince, Gabriel.”

“I already know they don’t like me - trust me, it’ll be easier than you think,” he says dryly and she cracks a wry smile, “I see I cannot pull the sheep over your eyes.”

“That’s not… yeah, okay, yeah, you’re right, I see it all,” Gabriel sighs, realizing that there are some battles that just aren’t worth fighting and she chuckles brightly, all sunshine and smiles and warmth, “It may take some time - a year...perhaps two.  The Council is focused on a good many things and changing Overwatch’s Commander is not even _near_ being a top priority, not when you are still perfectly capable of both killing Bastions and doing your finances.  ...But perhaps…” she adds slowly, a sly, crisp, mischievous smile on her face, “Perhaps you send Jack to fight your political battles with the Security Council instead, yes?  I do not believe any of us want to hear you give another speech like last week’s.”

Ah.

That fucking shitshow.

Gabriel is wrong.

 _THAT_ was the most uncomfortable he had ever been in his goddamn life.

“...Trust me, I’ll be more than happy to let Jack handle you ambassadors,” Gabriel mutters, feeling some of the pressure ease off of him, “He’s way better at this shit than me - shit, Adawe, he was telling me about this idea of making a medical sciences division to help deal with all the problems people are still having - he has this whole vision of having a huge team of doctors and scientists to work on giving out medical help and supplies and developing more efficient resource technologies - he wants to try and reestablish clean energies like Dorado and - what’s so funny?”

Adawe is laughing brightly to herself and Gabriel scowls as she reaches out and pats his arm, saying cheerfully, “I am glad to see you looking happier!  You have been frowning all day, my son.”

“Well, yeah,” Gabriel grins at her smugly, “You made me wear this shittyass costume - it’s not even good _quality_ , Gabrielle.  I could fucking design a better Commander outfit myself.”

Her eyes flash widely at the challenge in his voice and she mocks him, “I would pay good money to see you wear something other than your sweatshirt on the battlefield.”

“I never said it would be for me,” he smirks and Gabrielle just pats his arm again, laughing, “You have too much time on your hands!  I should be giving you more responsibilities.  Perhaps you can take some of the pressure off of me.”  

They resume their walk down the hallway to the entrance of the Headquarters, and Gabriel rolls his eyes, muttering, “Jesus, first y’all need me to stop the robot apocalypse and save the world, next you need me to rebuild cities, and then you need me to file your damn taxes - just fucking ask me to wipe your asses, why don’t you?”

“Do _not_ talk like that in front of the press,” Adawe chides him solemnly, “After five years I am used to your...unique way of speech, but please, mind your tongue for five minutes.”

“Be seen and not heard, huh?” Gabriel asks her wryly and she smirks at him, “It is only going to be a few photos, Reyes.”

“...One photo.”

“A few.”

“...One?”

“...How about a deal?” Adawe asks him as they pause before the large doors, “You give me five good photos, and I will let you leave early.”

“I won’t have to wear this piece of shit anymore?” Gabriel asks hesitantly and Adawe grins, “The others will still need pictures...and Jack has your beanie, I believe.”

“That motherfucker,” Gabriel mutters, but there’s no anger to his tone - just smug playfulness.  Jack _would_ keep his beanie hostage just to tease Gabriel while the commander is forced to be dressed like a total tool.

“Do we have a deal?” Adawe asks, her eyes glittering brightly.

Gabriel grins at her.

He’s not comfortable right now.

He does not feel like himself.

Hell -

This is not _him_.

But he thinks of four heroes, waiting in another room, dressed in matching colors; he thinks of how the four of them - all dressed differently, all dressed in whatever they were comfortable in - rolled from battlefield to battlefield, felling potential apocalypse after potential apocalypse; he thinks of how Torbjörn’s turrets provided him cover-fire as he sprinted across rubble and concrete, he thinks of how collapsing behind Reinhardt’s shield provided him such relief, he thinks of how he heard Ana call into his comms about her position, about pushing them forward, about gaining ground -

He thinks about biotic fields and the smell of pulse munition and a tall figure dressed in blue armor who would probably look even better with a long, regal overcoat -

He thinks about the comforting warmth of a black cotton beanie, about the gentle embrace of a familiar grey sweatshirt, about the weight of a shotgun, one in each hand -

This is not _him_ -

But for them,

It could be.

Gabriel grins at her vibrantly, vivaciously, _viciously,_ “It’s just a costume, right?  Fuck yeah, let’s do it.”

This is not Gabriel Reyes.

But for a few minutes, and few quick photos -

He can pretend it is.

 

\---------

 

**Segador: It is Not Him**

September 6, 2077: Cultural Heritage Museum, Numbani, Nigeria

 

“ _AY DIOS MIO_ ,” Sombra wheezes at him in harsh, brittle, aching laughter as she points to some image on a holoprojector, “ _Is this you??_ ”

Reaper glances her her sullenly - he feels bare without the mask, but there was no fucking way security was gonna let him in in his usual gear, so he’d donned a surgical face mask, only half-pretending to be sick when they had shuffled up to the ticket counter like good little spies trying to lay low.  Stuffed into a hoodie and a beanie, the majority of his face concealed by pastel green cotton, he’d actually somehow been able to maintain much of his mystique.

With a grumble, he stalks over to her, muttering lowly, “We’re supposed to be scouting this shit out, not playing around.”

“The Gauntlet’s not even _here_ yet, Gabe,” she says to him lightly, rolling her eyes before pointing back to the screen, “ _Pero, de verdad_ \- is this you??”

Reaper looks at the image on the screen, and then a dark, bittersweet, smokey scowl consumes his face.

Oh.

This fucking picture.

The posed, statuesque image of a dark-skinned man with a too-tightly-trimmed beard and a too-tightly-set headpiece and a too-tightly-locked chestplate and a too-empty assault rifle, with a huge, majestic Overwatch flag fluttering in the background against a blue sky with fucking _fighter jets_ in the background - as if early Overwatch had anything more powerful than used station wagons to fight Omnics with -

This fucking picture, which mocks him, which reminds him of the person he could have been, the commander he could have chosen to be -

The commander he never _wanted_ to be.

God, he fucking _hates_ this picture.

“...No,” Reaper growls as Sombra cackles, “It’s totally _you_ \- _qué chingados, pinche mierda_ \- I gotta send this to _Arañita_ -”

“DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE -”

“Hey.”

The two of them glance at the newcomer - Reaper still glaring viciously and Sombra still sporting the widest, biggest shit-eating grin - and the grizzled, scarred old soldier looks at them with a confused scowl, muttering, “...The fuck you two up to?  Aren’t we supposed to be scouting this shit?”

“Uh -” Reaper says unhelpfully as Sombra snaps out a hand to 76, pulling him over to the holoprojector, saying eagerly, “ _Oye, oye_ , Jack - is this Gabe??”

Jack takes a second to process the image and then -

In the stiff, awkward, uncomfortable, _deadass_ silence -

He fucking _laughs_.

The years and the stress and the explosion and his myriad of problems have tempered the sound, made it harsh and gravelly, filled it with the ashes of what they had once been, but there’s a light there, a brightness, as if someone is pulling the sun out of the depths of the oceans -

And then Sombra is laughing again too, and snapping a picture with her biosystem as Jack _wheezes_ , “Can I get a copy?” and Gabriel growls, “Listen _assholes_ -”

“What the shit is going on over here?” Ana asks as she joins them from her rounds about the museum hall and both Jack and Sombra pull her to the projector and suddenly all _three_ of them are laughing and Gabriel -

“Fuck this shit, I’m gonna rejoin Talon,” Gabriel huffs but suddenly there’s a warm, gentle pressure of a hand on his arm and Jack is there, smiling brightly at him from underneath scars and a silver-white five-o’clock shadow.

“Don’t be mad, Gabe,” the ex-commander chuckles to him and Gabriel softens a little at the words.  Jack jerks a thumb to the statue of himself a little ways off to the side, asking playfully, “Wanna help me knock the head off that jackass?”

“Fuck yeah, let’s do it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, Blizzard, if you want to hire me, you can find me at segadores-y-soldados.tumblr.com.
> 
> I was supposed to be writing Valentine's Week stuff, SHIT.


End file.
